


My Lady Your Quene is to Yow Bothe Good and True

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, also trans rights, and think they should be friends, basically hes really loyal to her but in a completely platonic way and i want ot explore that, the one where roman lady guinevere is childhood friends with gawain in rome, which mean mlm wlw solidarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24012931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: Two months ago, a ship from the Orkneys sinks off the shores. Seven weeks ago, an odd, highly educated young person about the age of the eldest child of Lot and Morgause of Orkney starts hanging around Rome. His accent is carefully empty of any place of origin. He is armed and moves like he knows how to fight, and acts with the wildly unearned confidence that can only belong to the eldest child of parents who are very powerful and very, very rich. Guinevere had put it together after only a few sentences, though no one else, apparently, had.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	My Lady Your Quene is to Yow Bothe Good and True

**Author's Note:**

> hi i just think that as they are both the villains of a teen coming of age movie they should b best frreinds

There was a stranger in the orchard. Guinevere could tell because the birds had not settled normally, and the hinges of the decorative wooden gate opened smoothly, where they should still have been stiff with frost. And she had a bad, watched feeling, which she had learned by now to heed. 

She came to the realization suddenly, standing in a patch of shade, facing out towards the walls that looked out over the hills of Rome. She didn’t scream, nor even drop her book (Sophocles, though her nurse said that she was not old enough for it) merely stood and assessed, scanning the trees. Her subtlety was wasted.

“Good morning,” A high voice wished cheerfully from the boughs of a pear tree, half a row down and one over from her. A head of wild brown hair emerged from behind the leaves, attached to a finely dressed young man. He looked her age at the most, and was wearing a pleased expression and, she noted cautiously, a knife at his belt.

“Good morning. You aren’t supposed to be here, it’s a private garden,” Guinevere said, tense but standing her ground.

“I dont believe in private ownership of property,” the boy said. He certainly seemed confident enough in his position to support that statement, making no move to escape.

She was considering throwing her book at him when recognition struck. “You’re that awful brat that hangs around St Peter’s Basilica.”

He grinned and selected a pear. “Gawain. And I believe that means I outrank you.”

“My father is the owner of this Villa,  _ Gawain.” _

Gawain looked unimpressed, taking a bite of his pear. “I didn’t know rotten old Leodegrance had a daughter.” 

“He does,” she insisted, trying to instil more confidence in that statement than she felt.

“My condolences,” he smirked. “Want a pear?”

She thought for a moment. Maybe she could stall till the guards-- what, went looking for her? Unlikely.

“Sure.”

To her surprise, he selected another and scrambled down the tree with practised skill, running over to her. He stopped a pace off and tossed her the pear, which she caught. 

With a gesture to the near-forgotten item clutched in her hands, he took another bite of his purloined fruit. “What’s that?”

“A book,” she answered dryly. He looked offended.

“I meant which book. I basically live in the archives, I know what a book is.”

“Sophocles,” she sniffed, “the Theban Plays.”

She did not expect his too-clever eyes to alight with genuine interest, but they did, and he moved closer to peer at the cover.

“Do you like them so far? I think the first is just dreadfully moralizing, but Antigone is decent.”

“It is a bit heavy-handed,” she admitted, despite herself. “with all the fate and everything, avoiding a prophecy just making it come true. But the Greeks were all about that, you know.”

“It’s creepy,” he insisted. “That they are all living their lives for nothing, no matter how hard they try it all ends in tragedy. It’s not fair.”

The discussion continued, to her surprise, and she found herself enjoying the company. They sat for a while beneath the trees, she attempting to argue the merits of fatalism, he eventually admitting that he didn’t like Sophocles much anyways, and Euripedes was far better. Guinevere admitted she had not read or seen any of his plays, and Gawain delightedly named and rated them, especially enthusiastic about The Bacchae, which he promised to bring her through illicit means. 

But when he tried to make a graceful exit, she desisted, having not been so distracted by the pleasant discussion that she forgot the beginning of it.

“Why were you in my father’s gardens? To steal?”

He shrugged. “Only pears. Maybe other fruit if I was feeling especially devious. I'm bored.”

She took a deep breath and tried her theory. “Rome cannot possibly be duller than the Orkney Islands.”

Gawain almost fell backwards off the wall he was climbing over and looked at her with a gratifyingly startled expression. “How?”

Two months ago, a ship from the Orkneys sinks off the shores. Seven weeks ago, an odd, highly educated young person about the age of the eldest child of Lot and Morgause of Orkney starts hanging around Rome. His accent is carefully empty of any place of origin. He is armed and moves like he knows how to fight, and acts with the wildly unearned confidence that can only belong to the eldest child of parents who are very powerful and very, very rich. Guinevere had put it together after only a few sentences, though no one else, apparently, had.

“I speak prophecy like Telemachus. I did not know King Lot of Orkney had a son.”

“He has several. Not that he knows.”

“My condolences,” she said, and she meant it. Gawain smiled, a little ruefully.

“Will you be here tomorrow? I should be able to get a copy of Euripedes. If you want.”

The statement was far too purposefully casual. He didn't care, either way, it practically insisted, he was doing her a favour, and was not at all wanting company of someone his own age with a secret in common.

“I will be here. I will meet you by the fountain, next to the wall.”

He went to leave, balanced precariously on the high stone wall, then turned back to face her. 

“I forgot to ask your name.”

She grinned. She loved giving her name. “Guinevere.”

“Welsh?”

“My mother.”

“Pretty,” Gawain noted approvingly, and dropped over the side before any other words could be exchanged. She stared at the place he had formerly occupied for only a moment, before rushing inside with Sophocles to start on her work. It wouldn’t do to get in trouble and be stuck inside to miss meeting him tomorrow.


End file.
